


Priorities

by pwk072347



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Andy is not impressed, Crack, Gen, M/M, Nicky is a little shit and an enabler, Pre-Movie, football buddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26341363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pwk072347/pseuds/pwk072347
Summary: “If we get hurt, we can heal. But if we miss a game live, that moment is gone. Forever.”***When extreme circumstances bring out the worst true nature of football fans.Or, the story of two centuries-old football buddies and their exasperated family.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 27
Kudos: 192





	Priorities

**Author's Note:**

> Even though it's just a split second in the movie, but I'm firmly behind the head canon that Joe and Booker bonded as brothers over their love for football, and the others are just tolerating them by this point.
> 
> Set a few years before the movie, so no Nile. Sorry.

In hindsight, Andy really should have seen it coming.

They were forced to lay low for a prolonged period of time. Nothing too serious, just waiting for the chatter from their previous job to quiet down. They chose to stay at one of their safehouses in North London, a beautiful bungalow that came with most of the modern conveniences: a microwave, Nespresso – and a TV that had all available cable channels.

Andy didn’t miss the spark of excitement in Joe’s and Booker’s eyes as they glanced at the TV upon entering. It took her a few seconds to piece it together and cursed internally. It was mid-April. That meant in the UK, football season was in full swing, with the Premier League, Champions League, and the FA Cup all playing at the same time. For supporters of top-flight teams, there could be a game every three to four days.

Now, Joe and Booker weren’t crazy football fanatics, in the sense that they were capable of not talking about it twenty-four seven under normal circumstances. But give them ample free time and unlimited access to cable TV, and they can be _obsessed_. Andy even heard them discussing one day whether they could get tickets to see a game live at the Emirate Stadium close by. (She shut it down immediately, not before demanding them to rethink what it meant by “laying low.”)

She also knew they weren’t supporters of any particular team. They’ve been on this earth far too long to outdate even the most historical football clubs. However, she knew they were in the habit of each choosing a team to support ardently whenever the occasion arises, just to spice things up. Once she commented offhandedly wouldn’t it be less stressful to just cheer the winning team, and Booker gave her the dirtiest stink eye that made her felt like she was a barbarian with no common sense. (Honestly? She thought they just wanted the excuse to bet on games and lure Nicky into it.)

This time around, Booker was supporting one of the North London clubs called Tottenham Hotspur, for their goalkeeper/captain Hugo Lloris, who was also the French National Team captain, and an assortment of French-speaking players. Joe was supporting Liverpool, and couldn’t stop raving about their Egyptian forward Mohamed Salah. It seemed when loyalty is involved, nationalism and patriotism still came first even after centuries.

The sheer fact that she knew this much was making her sick.

Like her, Nicky was just tolerating them by this point, but he was doing a much better job at it. He would listen patiently to any football-related conversation Joe threw at him, then shimmy out of any invitation to watch the game with the sweetest smile on his face. When a box arrived at the bungalow – which already had her raising eyebrows through the roof – and Joe presented him a red no. 26 Liverpool home kit with the expectant expression of a child on Christmas morning, Nicky remembered to wear it around the house whenever Joe wore his Salah shirt for the game. (Andy caught Nicky researching Andrew Robertson, the Liverpool no.26, online late one night because apparently Joe said the Scot “kind of reminds me of you.”)

It’s no big deal, she told herself. Honestly, what damage could this do except kills thousands of her fraying nerve ends, which would regenerate anyway? Two weeks in, when she found that she could grind her labrys peacefully without being distracted by the constant shouting, booing, and profanities thrown around the living room, she thought she had it all under control.

* * *

Shit went south on a Saturday afternoon in late April.

Andy and Nicky were making dinner, something taken for granted on weekends now. Tottenham was playing Liverpool today in the Premier League, and the boys had been cooped up in front of the TV with all their soft drinks, popcorns, and supporter’s goods. (Andy shook her head in disgust at the distasteful scarfs and little flags that materialized out of thin air one day.)

Nicky was making hummus, falafel with fava beans, and various dishes she recognized as Joe’s favorites. She wondered whether this was meant to be a celebratory dinner after the game. The Liverpool shirt Nicky put on for the occasion was already loose around the neck and hem, probably from over-wearing, or some other behind-the-door activities Andy definitely did not want to think about.

Then out of nowhere, something crashed through the kitchen window.

The element of surprise added a few seconds before they realized it was just a stone that shattered the window, and nothing was going to explode or expel poison gas. But a few seconds was enough to allow the enemies to barge in through the back door. Judging by the crash and yelps coming from the living room, another group had entered from the front door.

Fortunately, it didn’t take long for Andy to confirm that their opponents weren’t particularly skilled nor smart. She even smiled sympathetically when one of the thugs ran in too hot and tripped over his comrade that came before him. She determined they were most likely recruited and sent by the crime lord of the drug trafficking ring they just brought down, a pathetic attempt at revenge, to be honest. This meant they had no idea what they were up against, though the fact that they managed to find their safehouse was disconcerting. (Those damn boxes. She made a mental note to talk to Joe about his online shopping spree after this.)

Knowing the opponents were sub-par was good, but there were just _so many_ of them. And prolonged exposure to stupidity led to irritation, then by extension, exhaustion. So it wasn’t long before Andy decided to go full ballistic on them, if only for the sake of her sanity. She sensed that Nicky had picked up speed next to her as well, though she guessed he just didn’t want whatever he had in the oven to burn.

Their axe and sword were upstairs. Luckily, the kitchen offered nothing but abundant choices for weapons. The space was too cramp to fight though, so they cleared the floor meticulously, then moved out into the back garden to begin their killing spree.

Soon the fight was over, the back yard strewn with bodies here and there. Nicky ducked back into the kitchen first and went directly to shut the oven. Andy followed, and was just about to warn him that they might not get to enjoy a regular dinner due to this shenanigan when they heard loud commotions still coming from the living room. They both froze. If the enemies upfront were of the same quality they just fought, Joe and Booker should have cleared them by now. Were there more of them? Were they more sophisticated and lethal?

They went upstairs to grab all their weapons before moving quietly down the corridor towards the closed wooden door leading to the living room. As they drew closer, she could hear the muffled shouts became clearer –

“… that a yellow card? Are you blind, Mike Dean, you twat?”  
“Don’t blame the referee when your team plays dirty, Joe. It’s pathetic.”  
“Oh don’t you dare start – “

Andy had heard enough. She kicked open the door with her foot as she normally would, but instead of rushing in, she stood at the doorway, folded her arms, and stared sternly at the scene unfolding in front of her. Nicky skidded to a halt, took one look, and burst out laughing.

Bodies on the ground included, there really weren’t more enemies that came in from the front. Joe and Booker were surrounded in the middle of the room, back to back and dancing around their opponents. Judging by the ease with which they fought, these men weren’t particularly good at their job either. The reason for their prolonged engagement was obvious though: at least seventy percent of their attention was not on the fight, but on the TV. The football match on the TV, to be precise.

Andy observed for a few seconds as her brows knitted tighter and tighter, and finally bellowed, “why are you still playing with your food?!” One of the thugs was apparently indignant at being called food, and broke formation to charge at her, but she cut him down with one swoosh of her labrys. Several others also turned and came at the newcomers, but once they realized Andy and Nicky showed no intention of entering the room to assist their companions, they pulled back to surround the two men again.

“Boss!” Booker turned his head in acknowledgement, and pointed at the TV. “We’re just –” But the sound of crowds shouting suddenly erupted from the speaker, and she lost their attention again. Andy squinted at the display on the top left corner of the screen. _**TOT 1 – 1 LIV. 79:45**_. She groaned. The goddamn final ten minutes.

On the screen, a skinny Asian kid wearing the white Tottenham shirt had snatched the ball, and was now charging through the Liverpool half of the pitch. Booker jumped and cheered him on excitedly, then winced when a bat hit him square on the back for being distracted.

As the striker tore through the Liverpool back line, Joe also turned to curse furiously at the defenders of his own team. He yelped as someone stabbed him in the thigh with a pocket knife and fell temporarily to the ground, but then shouted triumphantly from the floor when the lanky Liverpool center back finally cleared the ball from under the Asian’s feet. He celebrated the close call by pulling the knife out with a flourish and sticking it into the guy’s neck.

Huh. Andy tried not to roll her eyes too hard in case they fell out of her eye sockets. A small voice from the back of her head reminded her she’s going to die one day, though she couldn’t tell whether it was trying to warn her against the health hazard she seemed to find herself in quite frequently these days.

“Hey boss!” After taking down the guy that hit him and a few others to vent his frustration at the missed opportunity, Booker turned around again, probably remembering their conversation was cut short. “Give us a hand maybe?”

Now Andy was sure if eyes could kill, Booker would have died multiple times by now, immortal or not. He visibly wilted before she even opened her mouth. “Hell no. You’ve made the bed. Now you have to lie in it.” She guessed Joe was trying to do the same by pantomiming his needs on his face to Nicky, for she heard Nicky chuckled gleefully, “whatever she said.”

Joe turned to her reluctantly since Operation Puppy Eye was a no-go, and pleaded, “Can we at least have our weapons?”

Andy considered this. The living room obviously offered less options for makeshift weapons, though the boys had repurposed many of the opponents’ sticks and knives. She was secretly glad the thugs didn’t bring much guns. As such, though Joe and Booker were covered in way too many cuts and bruises when she and Nicky got away without a scratch, at least there were no major injuries on them. She was glad, because otherwise she probably wouldn’t have the heart to enjoy watching them have their assess kicked. “Fine, but just so you can hurry up and get it over with.” She threw Joe his scimitar and Booker his assault rifle with two perfectly-timed swings.

Fortunately, the game happened to quiet down for now. Both teams were fighting for possession in midfield, but neither seemed capable to break into the other’s half. With their familiar weapons at hand, and their focus – still not completely – back on the fight, the onslaught of enemy fighters was soon falling like flies. Andy watched from the sideline, a satisfactory smile pulling at her lips. Perhaps they would still have time to taste a bit of that delicious falafel Nicky made before they eventually had to decamp.

“500, Booker.” Nicky suddenly piped up into the silence, or at least the level of silence when people were getting beheaded and disemboweled. “On Liverpool.”

Booker immediately started to complain how betting on a game that was almost finished was totally against the rules. Joe poured oil on fire by countering that there shouldn’t be any problem since the game was still a draw. The heated argument soon consumed most of their attention, and it wasn’t long before Andy started to hear their grunts and hiss of getting hit again. She threw an exasperated look at Nicky, accusing him of ruining the window of opportunity, but Nicky just shrugged nonchalantly. A natural gambler to the core, never to miss a bet, she thought begrudgingly.

The little voice in the back of her head once again reminded her she’s going to die one day. Ah yes. And she’s going to die surrounded by the biggest idiots in the universe.

Then all hell broke loose at the goddamn 86 minutes.

By this point, there were only a handful of enemies left. On the screen, Salah took possession of the ball, curtesy of a Tottenham midfield mistake, and ran straight at the opposite goal. After futile attempts to stop him by several tired-looking players in white, the Tottenham right back with a ridiculous goatee grabbed Salah’s shirt viciously from behind, and clumsily tackled him to the ground right on the edge of the penalty box.

An outrageous roar exploded both inside and outside the TV. Joe scowled at Booker as though he had personally fouled Joe’s favorite player, and screamed “Penalty!” just as the referee pointed to the 12-yard spot. Booker, bless his soul, actually had the decency to look embarrassed for the poor reaction of his team.

Too caught up in the moment, Joe didn’t notice one of the remaining thugs crept up on him with a knife aimed at his right temple. But the next second, two shots tore through the man’s chest, and Andy turned to see Nicky lowering his gun, not having moved from his spot leaning against the doorframe. She frowned at him for interfering, and Nicky shrugged again. “That was a lethal blow,” he said with tooth-rotting fondness, “I don’t want Joe to miss the game.” She had no choice but to slap him on the head.

Andy really wanted this to be over right now. But no, god forbid, VAR – video assistant referee, she once again cursed herself for knowing this – had to review whether the penalty was a valid decision. The screen replayed the tackle in slow motion from multiple angles, over and over again. The ensuing suspension was so thick she could cut a knife through it.

So she asked, out of the blue, “Is it really worth it? All this trouble?” with a wave of her hand vaguely at the chaos in front of her. It was not meant as an accusation. She was genuinely curious.

Joe and Booker, now shoulder to shoulder facing opposite sides, shared a look and belly laughed. “If we get hurt, we can heal.” Booker answered as he gunned down two thugs coming at Joe. “But if we miss a game live, that moment is gone. Forever.” Joe picked up after him, piercing another two through the guts with his scimitar for Booker.

She was surprised by their honest answer. And it sounded kind of profound when she gave it a second thought. She opened her mouth to say something, but missed the opportunity when VAR finally upheld the referee’s decision for a penalty.

Salah put the ball carefully on the penalty spot. Lloris, in the yellow Tottenham goalkeeper shirt, was jumping up and down, waving his arms in preparation in front of the goal.

“Oh god, I can’t watch this.” She found Booker in an awkward position. He was peeking at the game through fingers of his left hand, while at the same time still trying to eye his surroundings and aim the rifle in his right hand at incoming threats. Nicky nudged her as one of the thugs took advantage of Booker’s blind spot and drew out a gun. He cocked an eyebrow at her, and Andy reluctantly threw her labrys into the back of that man’s skull.

Uneasy silence fell in the stadium. Everyone stared at the screen. Even the remaining enemies seemed to be gaping at the TV. Andy didn’t realize she was holding her breathe. The referee blew the whistle.

Salah jogged up to the ball haltingly, and with a swipe of his foot, sent the ball flying towards the bottom left corner of the net.

Joe’s smug grin was barely concealed on his face. Nicky’s fingers twitched ever so slightly, probably feeling the imaginary cash he was about to receive.

Then, as though in slow motion, she saw Lloris flung himself to the ground in the right direction, arms outstretched. His gloved palm contacted solidly with the ball, and with a massive push, spun the ball away from the goal in the last second.

Elated shouts rang through the Tottenham home end in the stadium. Booker let out a triumphant roar, and took out the remaining enemies with a wild spray of bullets from his rifle. Joe collapsed onto the couch, mouth hanging open in stunned silence like he couldn’t believe Christmas was cancelled.

To the background music of Booker singing “When the Spurs Go Marching In” at the top of his lungs, Nicky turned to her and winked. “Well, you have to admit they got a point after seeing that.”

* * *

The game ended in a draw after six minutes of added time. Nicky was now haggling Booker for 250, as he insisted that he betted on Liverpool “not losing” and therefore was already showing great concession by not asking for the full 500. Booker sounded exasperated in arguing again that Nicky was not following the rules, but judging by the lack of heat in his voice, Andy guessed it was a battle he was prepared to lose.

The draw added drama to the remaining season, as Liverpool and Tottenham both face extra pressure to contend a top four finish and a spot in the Champions League next season. And how did she know that? Because those crazy football fanatics – she decided that’s exactly who they were – had the audacity to slouch on the sofa and actually started watching the post-match pundit analysis, seemingly not disturbed by the blood and gore around them. Andy held back the urge to kick them into action. They deserved to have this night, she thought softly.

But the bodies still needed to be dealt with, even if they may not have to vacate the house tonight. She and Nicky moved back to the kitchen to put everything from the supposed celebratory dinner into several Tupperware. They won’t be back until late at night disposing the bodies. Might as well eat on the road.

There was also their next hiding location to consider. Due to this surprise, staying in the country was no longer an option, and she suspected an even longer laying low period would be necessary. “Where do you guys want to go next?” She shouted towards the direction of the living room.

She didn’t miss the suspicious pause before they answered.

“What about Kiev? We haven’t been back there in ages.”  
“Yeah! I heard Ukraine is very beautiful this time of year.”

Nicky snorted into the hummus he was scooping. Andy immediately rounded on him, narrowing her eyes. “What? Nicky, what’s in Kiev?” Nicky caved pretty quickly under her deadly stare, and showed her the search result on his phone sheepishly. The homepage to this year’s Champions League final. At Kiev. Not a month away.

She takes it back. She hates football.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this fic sprang solely from the quote in the summary, which in terms derived from personal experience when this person got up at 3 a.m. (damn time difference) on the day of a major job interview just to watch England lose to Croatia in the 2018 FIFA World Cup semi-final.
> 
> The time I had in mind for this story is the 17/18 season. All players mentioned, whether by name or not, are actual players that were at the respective clubs at the time.  
> The game itself is fictional, though all incidents described are universal happenings that commonly drive football watchers bunkers at every game. Technically, VAR was not introduced in the Premier League until the 18/19 season, so artistic discretion it is. It's too good not to include the general confusion and increased level of stress imposed on football fans by VAR.
> 
> As usual, all comments and kudos are appreciated with immense gratitude :)


End file.
